


Have A Sip in the Sunshine

by APgeeksout



Series: In Which I am a Dork (about the Kentucky Derby) [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Birthday, Gambling, Gen, Horse Racing, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-01
Updated: 2009-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-22 22:31:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APgeeksout/pseuds/APgeeksout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kentucky has a Derby, Sam has a birthday, and Dean has a betting philosophy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Have A Sip in the Sunshine

**Author's Note:**

> Title snagged from Nappy Roots/'Villebillies version of "My Old Kentucky Home"

Gary Stevens closed out his segment without really committing to a pick, and the screen filled with a parade of women in strange hats. Sam briefly wondered if anyone’d ever tried to exorcise them, then turned back to the racing form open in front of him.  

“Still can’t make up your mind? Post’s in twenty minutes, Dude.”   

Before Sam could intercept it, Dean had plunked a frosty silver cup down in the middle of the page, forming a soggy ring in the middle of his race statistics. “Is this what I think it is?” 

“Depends. Do you think it’s a mint julep?” Dean asked, sitting stiffly enough in his seat on the other side of the tiny table that Sam knew his ribs were still bothering him from Tuesday night's run-in with a pissed-off spirit. 

“I do. Which is strange, because I thought I asked for a beer,” he said, lifting the cup and absently brushing at the damp spot on the program. 

“You did, but then I got to the bar, and Maria convinced me what a terrible mistake that would be. Besides, what kind of brother would I be if I didn’t get you drunk for your birthday?” Dean took a sip from his own cup and raised an eyebrow over the rim, wincing when it pulled at the half-healed cut on his forehead.            

“The kind that couldn’t be charged with contributing to the delinquency of a minor,” he tilted the cup toward Dean in a half-hearted toast before taking a dubious sip. The first taste was all sugar and mint and way too sweet, until the whiskey asserted itself, burning the other flavors away, leaving behind that too-strong smoky taste he was pretty sure he’d never savor; hoped he’d never crave. 

Dean scoffed, “Like that’s the most illegal thing we’ve done this week. And anyway, you’ve got ID, says you’re 21, right?” 

Sam just shook his head and tuned his attention back to the racing form, glancing over his notes in the margin one last time.

“You’re the only person I know who can turn gambling in to homework,” Dean groused. “What are you going to do in three weeks, when they hand you a diploma and say your skinny ass is done with school?” 

Suddenly Sam was grateful for the sweating cup in his hand, for something to hide his face, fill his mouth so that words like _accepted_ and _Stanford_ and _scholarship_ and _pre-law_ didn’t spill out onto the scuffed formica between them. He’d have to say it, and soon. But not today. Today was a good day, even with Dean still hurt and Dad gone on a job ‘til next week, and there weren’t enough days left until August to make Sam ruin this one if he could help it. He coughed around the gulp of whiskey that seared the back of his throat, and ignored Dean’s narrowed gaze until his brother’s face relaxed into his customary smirk. 

“They wouldn’t give you statistics if they didn’t mean something,” he said. “I want my bet to be based on something more reliable than the “awesome-factor” of the horse’s name.”

“Hey, I’m telling you Invisible Ink is gonna leave all those other nags in the dust.” 

“You sure about that? Dosage indexes say there are speedier horses on the track today.” 

Dean snorted. “Dosage? Really? Oh, Sammy, have I taught you nothing? It’s not about blood; it’s about heart.”

It was Sam’s turn to snicker, “And the name some billionaire owner puts on the registration papers tells you how much heart he’s got?” 

“Tells me more than some decimal points that show that there’s a turkeybaster full of Seattle Slew somewhere in his family tree.”  

“Ok, gross. First, I’m pretty sure there’re no kitchen utensils involved. Second, I’m going to go bet before this conversation takes an even more disturbing turn.”   

“You do that. I’ll be here trying to figure out how to get some of those crazy hat ladies to pay me a stud fee next time we’re in Kentucky,” Dean said, smiling beatifically at Sam’s wrinkled nose.    

The line of last-minute bettors was a long one, and by the time Sam made his way from the counter back to his brother the horses were being loaded into their gates on all the simulcast screens. Churchill Downs was a thousand miles away, but that hadn’t stopped the crowd in the clubhouse around them from getting thicker and louder and drunker as the race drew closer. Dean rose and handed Sam his half-finished drink, and they abandoned the little table to join the knot of people gathering under the nearest screen.   

“So who’d you finally settle on, professor?”

“Monarchos,” he said, “I could tell you why, but I’d hate to be so busy explaining that I missed his kicking your horse’s ass.” 

“Yeah, you keep talking. Maybe one of these nice people will give you a lift back to the hotel after I go to Vegas with my winnings and Maria the smoking bartender.” 

The announcer’s “And they’re off!” pulled their attention back to the screen, where the horses burst from the starting gates in a blur of muscle and mane and colorful silk, sending the room into hysterics – cheering and praying and brandishing wager receipts - as though they were watching from the dusty infield in Louisville instead of a smoky clubhouse at some practically forgotten track in New Mexico. 

“Go, baby! Go!” Dean added into the din as Invisible Ink moved up along the inside. 

Sam just grinned triumphantly as Monarchos pulled to the front of the pack, then away from it, crossing the finish line three lengths ahead of second place – Invisible Ink. 

Dean shredded his receipt ruefully, “I’ll be gracious while you gloat for exactly one hour,” he warned. 

Sam smiled slowly, “Ok. Can we start the clock on that after they light up the tote board?” 

Dean shrugged, “If that’ll blow your skirt up.” He reached his nearly empty julep cup out to tap against Sam’s, “Happy Birthday, little brother.” 

Sam took another sip and tried not to remember that Dean had been too concussed to celebrate on the actual day of his birthday or to wonder whether they’d be together on the next one. And if his “Thanks Dean. This is awesome,” came out a little rough, he hoped his brother would attribute it to the whiskey. 

The crowd had thinned a little, as people who’d backed the wrong horses wandered toward the bar or the parking lot, leaving a trail of worthless receipts behind them. The others milled around, chatting about the Triple Crown and watching the screens expectantly, waiting to see how much their bets would pay. 

“Guess it’s pizza for dinner if you’re buying, huh?” Dean said when the tote board finally filled the screen, declaring a $23.00 pay-out for straight bets on Monarchos. 

Sam actually giggled, and forgetting Dean’s ribs and his rules against hugging when no one’s bleeding, not to mention the likelihood of sloshing minty fresh whiskey onto the tile floor, flung his arms around Dean. “Should I start my gloating by telling you I laid two bets?” 

“I don’t know if you should brag about being one of those freaks who bet on a horse to come in third, man,” Dean said, breathless enough to make Sam release him with an apologetic look. “Plus, it’s not even paying ten bucks.”

“No, it’s not. But somebody told me Invisible Ink had all this heart… and the Exacta is paying out twelve-hundred and change.” 

It wasn’t often that Sam got the pleasure of shocking his brother into silence, so he reveled briefly in the moment before Dean pronounced, “Tonight, we eat steak!” and draped an arm around his shoulder to steer him toward the cashier. 

 

 

 


End file.
